


Bend and Break

by starspangledsprocket



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, M/M, Multi, Superfamily (Marvel), Trauma, violence against a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledsprocket/pseuds/starspangledsprocket
Summary: The Avengers are brainwashed into believing Peter is the enemy. Things do not go well for Peter from there.





	Bend and Break

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for Zaynab, who wanted brainwashed Avengers trying to kill Peter, before realising what they've done. Hope you like it, Zay!

Peter didn’t really know what was going on. One minute he had been helping the Avengers take down some kind of Voodoo Witch who had been tearing things up in Midtown, and the next his family had turned on him.

Now he knew why his Dad hated magic so much.

Things had turned ugly fast. They seemed to be targeting him specifically – or Spider-Man, perhaps, but they knew it was him – and no matter what he tried, he hadn’t been able to reason with them. His only option had been to distract them and run, abandoning the mission for the moment in order to regroup his thoughts and come up with a plan. His Pops always told him there had to be a plan in place.

He only knew about the SHIELD issued safe house two blocks from the Tower because he’d “accidentally” broken into his Dad’s secure server and found a couple of files. It was the first place he could think of that might actually be safe, so while the Avengers were snarling and frothing at the mouth, he slipped away, changed into his street clothes thanks to one of his many backpacks hidden around the city, and – Spider-Man costume stuffed into his hoodie pocket – headed straight there.

The safe house was… kind of gross. Not that Peter had really expected anything else, of course, but… yuck. What he hadn’t been expecting was for his handprint to open the door straight away – either his Dad or Mr. Fury had added his biometrics to the SHIELD system, and in that moment he was so grateful that he nearly broke down on the front steps.

Instead, he stepped into the faux townhouse and locked the door behind him. An ominously loud click followed, proving there was some kind of deadbolt attached to the door, and he finally took a deep breath, knowing – for now, at least – that he was safe.

Whoever had stayed here last hadn’t taken very good care of the place. Everything was covered in dust, and what little furniture still remained was draped in dirty sheets. As Peter explored, he found a worryingly blood-like stain leading from the hallway to a locked door that he assumed was the basement, and vowed then and there that, no matter what happened, he wasn’t stupid enough to step foot down there. Whoever had been here last clearly hadn’t had a great ending to their stay, and Peter hadn’t seen many horror movies, but he knew enough to know that you didn’t mess with basements.

Instead, he ducked through a doorway and found a dark kitchen. After a quick search, he came up with a couple cans of beans, which he quickly dumped into a relatively clean pan. He wrestled with the stove for a moment, never having used a gas one before, but figured it out pretty quickly and set the beans to cooking. The heavenly smell of tomato sauce soon began to cover the must that seemed to cling to every inch of the house; Peter found a crooked spoon wedged at the back of a drawer and hastily sat at the chipped table in the centre of the room to dig into his meagre meal. It was perfect after the stressful day he’d had, and he stuffed as much into his mouth as he could possibly manage, decidedly not thinking about the stacks of pizzas his Pops usually ordered after they’d gotten back from a mission.

Peter’s powers were still relatively new, and that – plus puberty – meant that he was almost constantly hungry. He knew, as he finished the last of his beans, that he’d be hungry again within the hour.

He needed to come up with a plan, or he was going to starve to death before his family even had a chance to wail on him.  

“Think, Peter,” he sighed, running a hand through his still sweaty hair. “Don’t be a doofus right now.”

But he was tired, and scared, and didn’t really have any idea how to get himself out of this mess. He was smart, sure, but he was still a kid, and his family were usually the ones helping him out of sticky situations. Hell, they’d only let him start going out with them as Spider-Man at _thirteen_ because his Dad had insisted they stamp a tracker in the palm of his hand, which –

Crap.

“Oh crap,” Peter mumbled aloud, staring at the tiny scar in the centre of his left palm. “Oh, double crap on a stick.”

He needed to get rid of the tracker. Brainwashed or not, it was a sure-fire way to get him caught out and beaten the crap out of, which was currently number one on his list of things he didn’t want or need to happen today. Whimpering softly to himself, he got up and found the sharpest knife he could that didn’t look like he’d need a tetanus shot after using, took it to the stove and laid it across the hob. He turned it on and waited for the metal to heat up, thinking not about what he was going to do, but that he’d learned this trick from his Aunt Tasha when he was _eight years old_.

He already missed his stupid, crazy family.

Taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths, he took the knife from the stove and sat back down at the table. He shook as he laid his left hand down on the table-top, palm up.

_You’ll be fine_ , he told himself. _You’ve got a heightened pain threshold. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine -_

It wasn’t fine. His skin screamed as he brought the knife down, cutting and cauterising all in the same motion, and the pain momentarily knocked the breath out of him. He groaned, blinking tears from his eyes as he continued to dig into his palm until he could see the tiny tracker amongst muscle and veins and bone. Taking a moment to heave air into his lungs, he forced himself to stop quivering quite so much and reached in to pluck the tracker out. As soon as it was out, and before he could second guess himself (or pass out), he pressed the hot blade to his palm, sealing his ribboned skin before infection could set in.

He felt kind of dizzy, but in a _pumped full of adrenaline_ kind of way. Allowing himself just a moment to take a few more deep breaths, Peter stood on unsteady legs and dropped the tracker onto the ground, where he promptly crushed it beneath his foot.

He was going to have to talk to his Dad about making one that could be turned off remotely, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to do _that_ again.

He was just thinking about exploring upstairs, maybe taking a nap before he came up with the next part of his plan, when a terrifyingly loud bang came from out in the hall. Peter’s immediate thought was _holy crap zombies are coming out of the basement holy crap holy crap holy crap –_

But then he heard an all too familiar voice.

“Peter?” his Pops called, and Peter froze. “Peter, honey, we know you’re here. You must be so scared, sweetheart, but it’s time to come home now.”

It was a trap – it had to be a trap. But… Peter was tired, and his hand hurt, and he so desperately wanted it to be his real Pops, his not-brainwashed one, that he found himself shuffling forwards towards the door. He wanted to go home, and he wanted pizza, and his jammies, and his bedroom, and –

And he walked directly into his Pop’s swinging fist. Shock hit him before pain did, which was probably what saved him. He ducked away from another punch, clutching at his already bruising face, only to bump straight into his Uncle Thor.

_Triple_ crap.  

“Hey… guys,” he smiled weakly, but there was no hint of recognition in their eyes. “Look, why don’t we just put this behind us and go get milkshakes? Huh, Uncle Thor? I’ll get you a banana one –“

But clearly Uncle Thor was in more of a chocolate mood, because his hand shot out with a speed that really shouldn’t have been possible for a man his size and grabbed Peter’s arm – _hard_.

“Well, this isn’t going to be fun,” Peter murmured, right before he felt bones crack and pain shoot through his whole arm.

He vaguely thought he might have heard himself scream, but there was a rushing in his ears that was making it kind of hard to be sure. His arm hung limply at his side, and when he tried to move it – tried to defend himself – nothing happened. He managed to duck under yet another flying fist from his Pops, but that just put him closer to the open front door, where –

Where the others had just stepped through.

“Hey guys,” he panted, clutching his broken arm protectively. “You gonna join us for milkshakes? Uncle Thor isn’t feeling banana today, but I’m sure we can find something else –“

Before he could finish his sentence, his Dad raised his gauntlet and, without even a hint of remorse, shot Peter directly in the chest. He went flying into the staircase and landed hard on his broken arm, sending yet more agony shooting through his body.

“Seriously,” he groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position. “What is it with you guys and banana today?”

“Kill him,” Uncle Clint replied.

“Oh,” Peter managed intelligently, but, injured as he was, didn’t move quickly enough as everyone surged forwards.

Aunt Tasha got to him first with a flying kick right to the face. Blood spurted from Peter’s nose and he whimpered, staggering backwards up the stairs. It was no use – he hurt all over and was getting clumsy, managing to fall backwards to land right on his ass. Uncle Clint managed to snag his ankle and started to tug him down the stairs; Peter had enough energy left to grab onto the bannister and hold on for dear life, which turned out to be a terrible mistake because it left his body open to getting punched and kicked.

“Stop,” he ground out, panic really starting to set in. “Please.”

Instead, a roar echoed through the house and the basement door blew off its hinges as Hulk burst through into the room.

Peter was doomed.

“HULK SMASH PUNY SPIDER,” Hulk roared, pushing the others out of the way to get to Peter.

“Uncle Bruce,” Peter pleaded, holding his good arm up as though that was going to protect him in any way whatsoever. “Please, no, don’t do this –“

Hulk scooped him up by the leg like he weighed nothing, and all Peter could do was take a deep breath before he was swung like a baseball bat straight into the wall. His head connected sharply and knocked him dizzy; the pain was starting to leech out of him, which he realised groggily was definitely not a good sign. His vision was going fuzzy at the edges, and no matter how hard he fought it, he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds.

“Ow,” he managed softly, rolling his head around to try and see where everyone had gone, to see if there was a way to escape.

They were all just stood there as though they had glitched and were rebooting. Peter managed to focus his attention long enough to watch first his Pops, then his Dad, then the rest of his family slowly come around. One by one they shook their heads as though clearing the last of the brainwashing from their systems. Peter forced himself to hold on just long enough to catch his Dad’s eye and see the horror – real, genuine horror – spread across his face.

“Petey?”

He was out before he heard anything else.

\---

Peter hurt all over. It wasn’t a particularly sharp pain – more a bone deep ache that seemed to touch every single part of his body. As he came to, it was the first thing that he really noticed before even opening his eyes. When he did open his eyes, it took him a few moments to realise where he was – the medical bay at the Tower.

For just a moment he panicked, remembering all at once what had happened, what his family had _done_ , but he soon realised, with a sigh of relief, that he was safe. He was safe because his Pops was sat in a chair next to him, and his Dad was curled around him on the bed, and neither of them were trying to kill him.

They were asleep, actually, and looked god-awful.

“Take it easy, kiddo,” his Pops murmured, startling Peter terribly.

He wasn’t asleep, then. He was incredibly pale, though, even for his Pops, and there were dark rings under his eyes that Peter had never seen before. He looked tired, exhausted, but smiled weakly when Peter looked at him properly.

“My baby,” his Pops whispered, and reached out to cup Peter’s face.

Peter didn’t even realise he had flinched away from the touch until it had happened, and his Pops pulled away sharply, a look of panicked realisation on his face.

“Peter, honey, I wasn’t going to… Jesus,” his Pops hissed, looking disgusted with himself. “I’m so, so sorry, Son, I –“

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Peter felt he should explain, even as his face heated in embarrassment. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what I’m doing. I must just be tired –“

“Peter, honey, stop,” his Pops waved away his apologies. “Stop making excuses for us. Of course we… we would never mean to hurt you, but… but we did. You’re hurt because of us and what we did to you.”

His Pops looked like he was going to cry. Peter had never seen him cry before; he really didn’t want to see him cry.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, staring down at his hands. “I’m just a little sore, is all. No harm done.”

His Pops made a sound like a dying animal, and it was the worst noise Peter had ever heard in his life. Worse still, it seemed to rouse his Dad from his slumber, because he took a big breath and sat bolt upright all in one motion.

“What’s wrong? Is it Peter –?” his Dad started, all before turning and realising that Peter was awake.

He burst into tears. Peter didn’t know what to do.

“Shit,” he hissed, batting the tears away from his eyes as though he were ashamed of them. “Shit, Peter, my Petey, my baby –“

He wrapped his arms around Peter before he even had a chance to process it was happening, which seemed to work in his favour because he didn’t have time to flinch away and ruin it. His Dad’s arms were like coming home, strong and gentle and achingly loving all at the same time. He was warm and smelled like _Dad_ , and before he could really stop himself, Peter was crying, too.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he sobbed against his Dad’s shoulder, and felt his Pops drop down onto the bed behind him. Another pair of arms wrapped around him, and he felt completely safe, completely encompassed by their warmth and support. “I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do, and –“

“Stop, baby; you’re going to make yourself sick,” his Pops murmured, his words rumbling against Peter’s back. “We’re so proud of you. You got yourself away long enough to recuperate.”

“You pulled your tracker out, huh?” his Dad added, gently taking Peter’s left hand in his own. It had been bandaged while he had been out, and – all things considered – actually hurt the least of all his injuries. “You knew that’s how we’d get to you.”

“I was too late,” Peter shook his head ruefully. “You’d already got my location before I took it out.”

“But it was a smart move,” his Pops told him. “A brave move. It can’t have… have felt good.”

Peter shook his head and sniffed; his Dad kissed his head gently.

“My brave boy,” he murmured against Peter’s forehead. “You’re safe now.”

Peter did feel safe. There was still an overwhelming urge to pull away and run, a tension in his spine that had nothing to do with his injuries, but he knew that would go away. He wanted it to go away, because he knew he was safe.

“The others have been worried sick about you,” his Pops said, and gently took Peter’s other hand to hold against his chest. “We all have.”

“I’ll talk to them in a little while,” Peter murmured, suddenly overcome with tiredness. “For now, can we just -?”

“You get some rest, Petey,” his Dad nodded, probably reading the exhaustion on his face. “Get yourself better.”

Peter nodded his head, then yawned. “Will you… will guys stay with me?”

“Of course,” his Pops replied immediately.

Between them, his Dad and his Pops got them all settled into a comfortable position on the single bed. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting their joint warmth seep into him and anchor him to the bed. He was safe; he was loved.

He was safe.

He was loved.


End file.
